


The Falling

by Cities_In_Dust



Series: Stitches On Patches AU [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Babe's Having A Day, Fluff and Angst, Hug Your Crowley Please, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Other, they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:08:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22645387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cities_In_Dust/pseuds/Cities_In_Dust
Summary: “Don’t think I have to explain Falling to an Angel. ’S what they hold over everyone’s heads Up There, isn’t it?”Silence. Aziraphale continued carefully, “They never told us what it was, Crowley.”The Demon froze, eyes flaring fire for a brief moment.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Stitches On Patches AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778590
Comments: 6
Kudos: 122





	The Falling

Aziraphale finished shelving a few tomes of ancient Greek prophecy, and heard Crowley gutturally groan in the back room. Following the sound of a small table being knocked over and something glass shattering, they rounded the corner, looking for a fight. Except the room was empty. 

Upon closer inspection, part of the couch sizzled. They knew that, once in a great while, Crowley somehow became energetically unstable and vanished. They could never talk about it. Aziraphale wouldn’t let them be alone with it this time, though, and they had an inkling to where their partner had flown. 

In a moment, Aziraphale stood outside Crowley’s apartment door. Muffled sounds of growling and crashing of heavy objects reverberated off it, still very low to human ears. Bravely, Aziraphale placed their hand on the door. A loud primal scream was the answer. After a beat came a weaker growl. One more loud crash, then silence. Aziraphale strained to hear anything for a few minutes. The door then unlocked. 

“Common, ‘Zira, I know it’s you.” Crowley’s tired voice barely made it through the door.

The minimalist apartment was spotless, as usual. However, in the air hung a denseness that came with using any miracle, proportionate to the size of the feat. The space was swimming in it, like heat on tarmac. Especially around Crowley, who lounged haphazardly on their white couch, fingers pinching the bridge of their nose.

Aziraphale's heart stung.

“My dear, please.”

As simple as the request was framed, it filled out hundreds of years of not knowing, not being able to help, but desperately wanting to be by Crowley’s side in whatever they were going through. If only Crowley gave them the word, they could be.

Crowley considered this. Angels were made with an inexplicable range of God’s emotions, but lacked ways to express them. Aziraphale could be short-fused, scrappy, and even downright cold. Yet their love was the deepest part of them, unforced and unfiltered. This Angel didn’t have agendas, however, which was why Crowley believed them now. He sighed.

“Zira, it’s… It’s just Falling, Zira. I’ll be alright.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Don’t think I have to explain Falling to an Angel. ’S what they hold over everyone’s heads Up There, isn’t it?”

Silence. Aziraphale continued carefully, “They never told us what it was, Crowley.”

The Demon froze, eyes flaring fire for a brief moment. Then they turned to sit properly on the couch, before practically gliding towards their partner, eyes critical.

“Do you really…? Nobody?” They were still breathing with some difficulty, voice thick with indignance of the implication.

Aziraphale looked them in the eyes, curiosity mixed with resolution.

“We’re not allowed to talk about it. Ever, you know that. It is said to be a terrible and painful thing, something that fundamentally changes one into the opposite of what an Angel is supposed to be. Yet They never said how. Crowley, if…”

Crowley’s next words were soft, the backs of their fingers gently traced the Angel’s cheek. 

“Oh, my angel….”

Tears formed in the Demon’s eyes. One brimmed over and burnt the flesh it touched on its way down their cheek. Crowley didn’t flinch, but Aziraphale wiped it away with a gentle thumb. It left a dark smudge, burning even as it was shifted. The Angel shook their head sadly at it.

“You don’t have to tell me, dear one, but… I….” Something awful turned in their mind.

Crowley stared evenly, hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. They made a decision.

“’S’okay, Zira. I’ll tell you how.” The Demon started out slow, pulled their marbled grey t-shirt off over their head. They then folded and placed it gently on the coffee table. It was difficult to talk about something they’d been hiding for millennia. More risky to let the literal walls they’d crafted for even longer fade in front of their significant being’s face. 

“So, when you Fall,” Crowley continued, “your essence burns in something that… well it smells of sulfur, at least, an’… your halo… your… your… countenance… it… it crushes. Gets crushed.” They looked to Aziraphale’s face to see them tracking. So far, alright. They tried not to fidget, and breathed deep before their facade completely dissipated. 

Crowley’s skin appeared to be a deeply tanned olive and blotched terribly, almost completely, with bleeding char. Something like clusters of embers and veins glowed just beneath its thinner surfaces, and appeared to be smoking. Their wings were littered with a similar plight. Yet, just as they said, their countenance, supposed to be coming off an Angel in living wave-particles of light, was denied of the Demon— instead, their light was being constantly twisted and broken apart. Their eyes were pitch black, reflecting a certain indiscernible void. None of their forms could get away without this showing up, thus the facade. They steeled themselves. 

“But the punishment is that… It never stops.”

The Angel wasn’t breathing. “Wh… How…”

Crowley shook his head. “I don’t know. But everyone… everyone goes… insane, from the pain, the shame of it. We all beg before we realize nobody’s listening anymore… Before we realize there’s no forgiveness, no mercy to be had. I’m just… one of the very few… who was able to get it together enough to be considered for an infiltration job. Up here, an’ well… you know th’ rest.”

“Oh, dear… Oh, my dear Crowley.…” Aziraphale’s tears ran over as well, except their’s glittered prettily on their face. Crowley appreciatively cocked his head to the side a moment, before kissing those tears. It didn’t shock the Angel, and Aziraphale continued, “How have you been dealing with it, all these thousands of years? I’ve seen you, in several shades of… well, now that I know it was pain, and survival…. But also in great love, Crowley. I know you don’t like hearing that, but it’s as true as anything.”

The Demon held their partner’s head in their hands and unhurriedly kissed it in different places, mostly for punctuation. “It gets easier to manage, if you’ve set your mind to it. If there’s hope of it. And it always burns, always hurts, though you can be distracted. Maybe with work, or joining an honest to Someone Angel for crepes in France, or what have you. Eventually it’s just a dull grinding. But sometimes it can flare, stir up old emotions. It passes, though, my angel.” Crowley then peered into Aziraphale’s eyes, to make sure they were listening. “There’s always a sunrise… always.”

So welled with emotions, Aziraphale took hold of Crowley and kissed their mouth. Tenderly first, and then deeper. For a good moment, Crowley didn’t realize they had to detach to gather shaking wits, as they were still coming down from the episode.

“Sorry, angel, just um, give me a moment, yeah?” They kissed Aziraphale once more before smiling softly, despite everything. The Demon’s clean human facade came back into place, and they replaced both their shirt and sunglasses.

“Yes, I apologize….”

“Don’t think of it. Would you like to drink with me?” Crowley started for the kitchen.

“Are you sure that’s wise, dear?”

“I’ll be alright.” They disappeared and came back with two glasses and a bottle of something light. The label was one of Aziraphale’s favorites. “I don’t really binge drink anymore, save for occasion.”

“Well, if you insist….” 

Aziraphale was still reeling, and supposed that, at some point, simply seeing Crowley wouldn’t break their heart and enrage them at the same time. Yet, gratefully accepting the glass of wine, they sat comfortably on one end of the couch and thought to themself while their partner may or may not have been rambling about something or other. They tried to listen. The wine swirled, around, and around.

All of those Angels, burning, and being crushed, for all this time, and for what?

To Aziraphale, God was like an absurdist piece of art that looked different to everybody, and words were insufficient to describe it. Which meant that nobody could say anything about God that would mean anything significant to another being. The Hierarchy were just fighting entropy, frantic and afraid. That wasn’t to say humans hadn’t been known to attempt that same power drill over the course of their entire evolutionary existence. A certain complexity in sentience left room for complex forms of fear, adding to the ability to be stubbornly and incredibly blind— and Angels weren’t effectively more complex than humans. Apples or no apples.

Aziraphale hadn’t fully realized yet, but Crowley was sleeping, head securely in the Angel’s lap. They were absentmindedly twirling and brushing the Demon’s hair in their fingers, and even gently brushed their face every now and then.

Perhaps it was, as some humans can manage, a resolution to self awareness, even after decades of violence and turmoil. And sure, Crowley took credit for a couple horrible human ideas, but they did still have to prove themselves to their peers and superiors on a regular basis. Before they’d both quit, that is. Hell had to be a rabid place, hierarchy and all. No wonder Crowley spent so much time--

Aziraphale’s hand froze as they looked down. Only for a second, though. Just enough to smile before continuing. Then, they ceased swirling their glass, and drank from it.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a reflection on violent homes. Thanks for reading. #Love


End file.
